LAZY DAYZ

Roseto By the Sea

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Everything in the town, typical of most of Italy and many Latin countries, closes from 1 to 4PM.  And I mean everything;  banks, post offices, grocery stores, pasta shops, restaurants (except for an occasional café), Church doors, and even most gas stations.

The streets are as empty as if it were 5AM.  People leave their jobs to eat the largest meal of the day and take a nap, then return to work at 4PM and continue to about 8PM.  Stores stay opened later, and restaurants, of course, much later.

Romans and other city-dwelling Italians are beginning to pour in to this popular seaside resort town, making the Lido nights more lively, and the morning beaches full of “waders” in the ankle-high Sea, as groups of vacationers, large and small, claim their umbrellas and chairs for which they have paid.  They “pitch their tents,” so to speak, and park themselves for hours on end.

Beach-walkers and lido-goers fill the boardwalk until midnight, when everyone, from babies to great grandparents, stroll back to their vacation rentals and hotels.  The evening light begins to fade at 10 or so, lingering a bit, to create a twilight effect when most in the United States have been in the dark for several hours.  I love this latitude.

The opposite occurs in the winter, with short daylight hours, and long periods of dusk and darkness.  In the winter, I prefer northern latitude cities, like Paris, over small quiet towns, because the glow of the city streetlights and crowds of people give the illusion of daylight, even when it is dark outside.

Dark or not, families stay out late here.  A great grandmother walks a little princess in her pram, while the two big brothers race around the square on their bikes, under the watchful eye of their great grandfather.  It is 11:30PM.  

A "Pop" Shot!!

Next I see a family of at least three generations stroll by eating gelato.  The young mother is carrying a newborn in a sling, while the father hoists a sticky two-year-old onto his shoulders.  The grandparents, holding hands,  follow the lively bunch.  I experience this in Mexico as well.  For them, night is a time for fun.

Two kittens sneak up towards the front porch on the second to the last step behind their mother, whom I have been calling “Chicken Little” because she is quite petite, and very skiddish.  The playful babies peak at us, as their mother gives me her usual semi-trusting stare.  

She had snuck into the house our first night there and made a feast of the leftover proscuito on the kitchen table.  Since then, we have fed her a handful of times.  Tonight was no exception, as I emptied a can of yummy wet mousse onto a plate and slid it toward the threesome. Cautiously and voraciously, they sucked up the welcomed treat.

Carolina then gingerly “shooshed” them off the porch.

“Don’t let them get too comfortable,” she said, as I stood back, a little frightened of the mama’s fangs and occasional protective hiss.  As pretty as the feline is, I don’t need to get too attached to an animal again.  My Mexican Siamese, whose name already escapes me, disappeared a few nights after I had decided she was mine.

There are a lot of wild cats roaming around here searching for food, but not human attention - unless food is involved.  A woman arrives nightly in the town square to feed about fifteen felines.  Her elderly mother sits in the passenger seat of their old red Fiat, while the “feeder” opens can after can of scrumptiousness for the “locals.”  

Cousin Gabriele

Occasionally, local friend or cousins will swing by our villa to visit, offer a hand, or deliver treats, like homemade cake from Mario and his wife, Dora.  Fresh zucchini from their garden added to our basket of tiny sweet plums, making a beautiful centerpiece, until we gobbled up the sweets and Carolina rolled shredded zucchini into “meatballs.”  This dish was a first for her, drowning the EQUALLY-SIZED circles in her sweet red sauce.  Delicious!

Giovanni leaned into me with all his weight, as he does when we walk, and gently plucked the colorful fruit from its branch. Oval-shaped and apricot-colored, my first passion fruit taste, straight from the vine, was a seedy surprise, as the pomegranate-looking red insides, burst in my mouth with mild sweetness.  

He then proceeded to give me a lesson on grape-pruning, explaining how to remove the leaves preceding each bunch, allowing the nutrients to “not-a stop along’a the way’s.”

“You can-a make-a the wine-a now-a, but it will be-a vinegar.  No-a sugar yet-a.”  He told me how his father had hired a woman to do this tedious leaf-removing job, and that he, ten-year-old Giovanni, would work along side her all day, from 7AM to 7PM.  At 87, he continues in this vane, spending most of every day “putzing” around the luscious, overgrown garden of fig, pear, leon, and other fruit trees, rosemary bushes, bougainvillea, oleander, likes, ginger, and more.

His work ethic is ingrained, as his attitude toward women. Solid, old-fashioned, and unchangeable.  Most of his “people” started with nothing, some making themselves small fortunes by pure blood, sweat, and tears, while others reaped the benefit of “post-War gifts” from the United States, allowing the to open businesses, build farms, and set a foundation of success for generations to come.

Carolina spends less time in the garden than years past, having done her share of picking and pruning since they bought this property over fifty years ago.  She managed to pick a colorful bouquet, however, for Giovanni to place at the graves of his loved ones.  His brother and wife arrived a few days ago, bearing a St. John the Baptist Day gift - a lovely wild berry torte, which we gobbled down, along with an ice cream bar from Mario’s family’s factory.

Carolina would prefer a gallon of scoop-able ice cream, as she has difficulty masticating due to an illness that affected her face and mouth a few years back.  For this reason, though she manages to gnaw on pizza and bread and cheese and prosciutto, she also makes herself a daily smoothie of crushed fruits mixed with a protein shake and some nutrient-rich powder.  She has been doing this by hand, because she forgot to bring her mini juicer.

We had hoped our trip to the Mercatone, a large retail store resembling Two Guys or Walmart, would produce a small juicer, but our efforts were in vain.  After waiting an hour in the blazing sun for the next bus in the direction of Pescara, we boarded, only to be informed by the bus driver, that the large business was selling out completely, only to be re-stocking in about two weeks.

Regardless, Carolina insisted on taking the trip.  She bought ten pairs of sports underwear, and I found some jazz slippers for the granddaughters.  Everything (which amounted to nothing), was 80% off.

With time to kill, we ate an ice cream cone while waiting for the next bus back to Roseto.  I had inhaled mine,  and informed Carolina that we had better start walking across the highway to the alleged bus stop.  She was still working on her cone when I escorted her directly across the busy highway to the bus sign, where there was fresh- cut brush, dirt, and some strewn garbage in place of what Carolina claims was once an actual bus stop.  A “precarious” place to wait, indeed.  Thirty minutes later, our ride rescued us from our hot, dangerous post.

Once I had Carolina settled at home, I took off on my bike, finally catching a photo, poor though it is, of the dangerous practice of riding on bike racks that I have witnessed here.  The “boardwalk” is busy with people walking, lots of children and baby carriages, elderly folk with canes and wheel chairs, and bikes.  Every time I see somebody standing on the back of a bike, helmet-less, no less, I cringe.  I wonder what their head injury statistics are.

Diving, scooping, rolling, and jumping with "butt floss" swimsuits is beyond me.  Nonetheless, lovely, flawless young girls play wildly, as they compete in volleyball on the sand.

My "Cruiser"- Circus Miranda
on far right

Every Shape and Size - Enjoying the Sun

Alive with people now, after a tranquil June, I get a thrill riding the beach cruiser along the boardwalk, people-watching, sunset-watching, and exploring.  I even got to see a beautiful white lioness in a circus cage, which made me cry.  

 But everything else about this magical, quaint place makes me very happy.  Grateful for a high school friend's openness to a "voice," I count this time as blessing, even as I hold the hands of her parents, being their ears and their eyes.

Me (in my dreams)

My private Accordion Concert!

Thursday Boardwalk Flea Market

A War Memorial

SIDE-TRACKED

SIDE-TRACKED

Picking up fro where I left off, the lady at the San Giovanni di Rotondi bus stop was right - I did not make my connection in Foggia - by a measly four minutes!  I walked up to the ticket window and produced my pre-purchased ticket, doing my best to ask if I could use the ticket on the next train.

“Partido!” he said, vehemently. “It go!”

“Tell me something I don’t already know,” I thought.  “Yes, treno prossimo - altro biglietto?  O questo?”  (next train - another ticket?  Or this one?)  He proceeds to tell me to go to information, then waves me off with a “hmph!”

As I turn around to look for the information booth, I see the nun whose picture I discreetly took at the Padre Pio bus stop - the shopping nun!  She had been on my bus back, reading a Prayer book, praying a large rosary, and holding a finger rosary the whole trip.

Another good thing about nuns in habits, is that you can always count on them to help you.  I immediately approached the diminutive woman in pale blue regalia,  and began to speak, when she blurted out in perfect English,

“Where are you from?”

“Oh my gosh, you speak English!” I exclaimed, making sure not to use the Lord’s Name in vain.  “I’m from Santa Barbara, but live in Mexico.  Where are you from?”

“New Jersey!” she said, and then, when I told her that I was originally from Pennsylvania, I had delivered my ace in the hole.  We chatted it up a bit, until she pointed to the information window two over from the original guy, and offered to help me.

As I stood at the unmanned window, a man in the second window motioned for me to go to the guy in the first window!  Sister Maria went to work for me with her fluent Italian “nun” charm.  Eventually, a figure appeared at the information window.

As it turned out, I wouldn’t have to pay any more money, but my ticket would be changed to the only alternative route that night, which would stop in the town of Termolo for two hours and arrive in Pescara after the last trains and buses to Roseto.  

I would have to deal with the "Pescara to Roseto" problem later, trusting in God, of course, along with my willingness to live by Hebrews 13:12:  "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby, some have entertained angels unawares."

Sister Maria happened to be on her way to thirty days of study in the town of Casino (ironic, I thought), followed by an eight-day retreat, all in preparation for her Solemn Vows.  This 28 year old, soon-to-be-permanent member of the Franciscan Sisters of the Immaculate, had been in the convent in San Giovani di Rotondo since she was 17.

“Sisters of the Immaculate?” I said, “Immaculate what?  Heart?  Conception?  What?”  She laughed hysterically and said that only a true Catholic would think to ask that question, but that indeed, it was just “Immaculate.”

I really liked her spunk, and was impressed with her commitment.  One of three girls, all members of the same Religious Order, she had come from a large Catholic family in northern New Jersey.  I felt a twinge of sadness when we were forced to part, she for her holy time, me for my question mark.

Termolo.  With each tiny, deserted, farm town train stop, I prayed that Termolo would have more to offer.  My prayers were answered - again.

With two hours to play, I headed straight for the water.  This high-walled town juts right up to the beach, with a long concrete boardwalk, a few Lido’s, and steep steps to cliff-hovering hotels and apartments.  “Lambie” and I basked in the soon-to-be-setting sun, realizing that here, like Santa Barbara, the sun would rise and set on the same beach.  

Tremolo, however, is north-facing, whereas Santa Barbara faces south.  A couple and their beagle took it all in, as I photographed them, in envy.  I explored a bit, only to look up toward the south, and see the high stone walls of a medieval tower, barely hiding the steeple of an ancient Church.  

The 11th century Swabian castle is one of 747 in Italy.  I walked up the hill to catch a glimpse up close, hoping I would have enough time to find the Church behind the walls.  

After scurrying around the thick-walled village, I finally came upon an arched entryway fit for a King and his Calvary. 

It was truly stepping back into time - Medieval time.  Cold stones, the smells of fresh bread and sounds of townspeople seeping through cracks and around corners.

The Romanesque Cathedral on the town square (behind the fortification walls), is dedicated to St. Mary of the Purification.  Not only was it open, but it was full of people celebrating a Mass with at least two dozen priests and the Bishop.  I stayed for a few moments, after listening to a beautiful choir sing the “Gloria.”

After quick glimpses of the narrow streets, many business run from small stone caves in the walls, and delightful cafés and bistros, I high-tailed it back to the station, Lambie in tow.  My heart was leaping at the luck of this re-routed day.  

The detour to Tremolo provided a highlight that begs me to return to this rustic town - a place I would have never known, if not for Padre Pio and the lady with the cane.  

I still had a hurdle to jump, needing a prayer to be answered, or a stranger to help me - how would I get back to Roseto tonight?

As I waited on the proper Binario (platform), the woman next to me asked me something about the schedule.  When I told her that I was a stupid American who didn’t speak Italian, she laughed, and began to practice her quite-decent English with me.  We sat together on the train to Foggia.  Her name was Anna, like my mother, Ann.

She noticed my Padre Pio and Saint Gabriele bracelets, and asked if I was religious.  I told her that, as far as I knew, I was.  But more than that, deeper in my being, I was spiritual - perhaps a mystic - intrigued with a realm beyond the physical, and always truth-seeking.  

She then began to tell me stories of her mother’s and young daughter’s spiritual dreams.  In one, Padre Pio came to her mother and told her that a miracle would happen in her daughter’s life.

“I prayed to God before an image of Padre Pio, and I cried very much,” she told me.  “I thanked Padre Pio for giving me a miracle, even before it happened.”  Shortly thereafter, Anna discovered that, after trying unsuccessfully for years, she was "expecting."  She named her son Mario Pio.  Three years later, she would also be blessed with a daughter, Desiree Concetta, now five.

By the time our train arrived in Pescara, we had bonded, and she promised to help me find a taxi or bed and breakfast for the night.  Her significant other, the father of her children, with whom she lives and is “eternally engaged,” came to pick her up at the station.  Little Desiree Concetta (always said in full), was in tow.

“What is your name?” the darling squirt asked.  Their part time Scottish neighbors have a five-year-old as well, and the two have been swapping languages since they were toddlers.  I conversed with the eager chatterbox as Anna imparted my dilemma to Claudio.  Moments later she said,

“Claudio will accompany you to Roseto tonight. with his work car.”  I was flabbergasted. But not sure what "accompany" entailed.

“You prayed,” she said, “and this is your answer!  But first you must come to our house.”

Their small two-bedroom apartment was in a complex just blocks from the Blue Sea Restaurant along Pescara’s shoreline, where artsy giant lamps with red acrylic shades light the boardwalk.  Though exhausted, and concerned about my friends waiting for up me, I obliged their hospitality, and sat on the patio with the family, including a 23-year-old nephew who had been babysitting.

"Taralucci" and wine are a typical Italian snack.  The men rolled cigarettes, while Desiree Concetta sat on my lap sharing her electronic kitty cat game, eating the pretzel/breadstick flavored "rings," dunking them in the wine. 

I then whipped out my six dice from their pouch, and taught the bunch "One-Four-Twenty Four."  After a few rounds, it was time to go. Anna and Desiree Concetta came along, the the four of us squished into the front seat of Claudio's work truck, the little girl perched on my lap.

Pescara to Roseto by car takes about forty five minutes.  I repeatedly thanked them, as they refused my offer of gas money.  I promised both to visit them before I leave the country, and to pray for their intentions.  Anna’s, I know, is to marry. 

“Not so much for the man,” she had told me, “but for God.  I want to be free to receive Communion.”

I snuck quietly into the villa around 11PM, grateful that Carolina hadn’t waited up for me, although she later told me, she had hoped I was on each of the passing trains that lulled her to sleep.

Tired but wired, I sat out on the balmy terrace and wrote until 2AM, at which point, instead of pushing the light switch, I pressed the doorbell.  No answer (wink).  I awakened no one, and I fell sound asleep, thankful for being side-tracked.

Manmade "jetties" 

The Fishing Pier at Sunset